


Fly Close to the Sun

by GloamingMage



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Fantasy, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, M/M, Magic, Master/Slave, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Royalty, Slavery, Trans Character, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloamingMage/pseuds/GloamingMage
Summary: Donovan is the new king of Sherid, at war with nearby Albionne in revenge for the death of his parents. Auberon, an elf, is captured by Donovan's soldiers and gifted to the king as a slave. As Donovan fights to avenge his parents and protect his kingdom he learns that Auberon is not what he seems."'My boys found him skulking just outside one of the border villages,' Rhiannon said. 'We interrogated him, of course, but he doesn’t seem to be a scout or a soldier. We’re not sure where he came from, or why he’s here, but we just couldn’t let him slip through our fingers.'This elf would not soon fade into the night. The chains around his wrists would make sure of that, although they were not the heavy iron manacles commonly used to bind a prisoner of war. They were slim but strong, wrought of gold, designed to bind a prized slave. Unhindered by his bindings, the elf walked with catlike grace. The soldiers on either side of him looked hopelessly clumsy by comparison. But he did not run, nor did he resist as they led him to the king. His head was held high, his expression serene. As beautiful as any slave, as haughty as any prince, he defied judgment. Donovan could not tear his eyes away."
Relationships: Donovan/Auberon
Kudos: 14
Collections: Prose From the Abyss





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first public attempt at original fiction! This idea wouldn't let me go, and I plan to ride this wave of inspiration as far as it'll take me. Hopefully all the way through the story, and then through a few rounds of edits. Speaking of which! This is just a first draft. Constructive criticism is welcome, but please be nice! This may be practice for a much more ambitious project, but it's also for fun and extremely self-indulgent. Hopefully you, the reader, enjoy it as much as I do. Mind the tags, and godspeed.

The wine from Albionne was bitter and dark, a far cry from the cloying mead and wildflower honeyed ales of Sherid. Donovan drank it anyway, not because he appreciated the foreign flavor, but because this particular bottle had been squirreled away in the baron’s bedchambers, hidden from the common soldiers that protected his fortress. It was not safe, however, from Donovan’s fighting men and women, drunk on their victory and baying for blood. Donovan had mercifully thrown the baron into the dungeon, choosing to pour out his wine instead of his blood. The rich red liquid splashed against the sides of polished drinking horns and trickled down the chins of Sherid’s finest captains. Donovan drank what was certainly a priceless vintage in heady gulps, barely giving the complex flavor time to settle on his tongue.

Victory tasted bittersweet. Although Donovan’s soldiers had no trouble dancing and drinking until the weight of the war shook off their shoulders, he could only put on a passable charade of celebrating with them. His smile did not reach his eyes. A politician should have no trouble faking a smile, but Donovan was not fond of doing so. It should be easy to celebrate with his subjects on the night of a victory, but the rush of battle had long since faded, and Donovan felt a hollow ache where joy should be. This was only his second victory as king, he reasoned. Perhaps his new responsibilities weighed too heavily on his body and mind. Perhaps his days of revelry were over, just another ghost of his old life, waiting to be mourned and put to rest.

But his soldiers should not have to share in his melancholy. With the dead buried and the wounded cared for, now was the time to celebrate. So Donovan faked a smile, raised his glass, and pretended to take pleasure in the bounty stolen from Albionne.

He was doing a miserable job of it. General Rhiannon plucked the horn from his hand. Perhaps she once felt a shred of hesitation skirting protocol with the king, but she had chastised a young Donovan far too many times to be intimidated by him now. A king of Sherid would not be accepted if he thought himself too important for good hard work. As a prince, Donovan had trained with the common soldiers—common by birth, although no one who met them in battle would describe them as common, and Rhiannon had been as skilled a teacher as she had been a relentless taskmaster. Now, she generously refilled his horn and said, “It pains me to see you this way, Your Majesty. I know you have more troubles to forget than the rest of us, but at least try.”

“The war’s not over, General,” Donovan said. “It’s a perilous road ahead of us. I’d rather celebrate at home, knowing my people are safe.”

“I was sure you’d say something like that,” Rhiannon said, pressing the horn back into Donovan’s hands. “Have a drink, Your Majesty. I know something that’s sure to brighten your foul mood.”

Curious and apprehensive in equal measure, Donovan took a long drink of wine. The baron’s vintage must have dried up, and this new bottle burned all the way down. Rhiannon whistled to catch the attention of her right hand, then did so a second time when he proved too distracted by a dancing slave to immediately respond. The soldier comically about-faced, fumbling to set aside his drink as he hurried to Rhiannon’s side. She murmured something behind her hand, taking care not to allow the king to read her lips. The soldier grinned broadly and left the banquet hall, making a valiant effort not to stumble and fall flat on his face on the way out.

Donovan eyed the ruby-red liquid that beckoned from his drinking horn. “A full day’s march into enemy territory and our fighting men and women are too drunk to mind their commander,” he muttered, just loud enough that Rhiannon would be sure to hear. 

She shoved his arm, forcing him to narrowly avoid spilling wine on himself. “Only half of them have been drinking. The Kingsguard and the gatekeepers are on strict orders to stay bone-dry, lest I be forced to break my foot off in their collective ass. And you, Your Majesty, are entirely too dry for my tastes. If you insist on sulking, at least be drunk while you do so.”

Her logic was watertight. Donovan threw back his wine, and when he turned his gaze back toward the banquet hall, the doors were opening. The raucous song and chatter quieted—not by much, but for a good reason. Donovan too was speechless when he saw who was brought through.

Donovan had seen elves once before, although he was not entirely sure he hadn’t dreamed it. He was supposed to be keeping watch as his comrades slept, when the shadows began to move around him. Half in a daze, he'd watched as a party of elves passed by, their eyes gleaming like stars, their clothes shimmering like moonlight. One turned to meet his gaze, and he woke up to Rhiannon raking him over the coals for falling asleep on watch. Now, an elf was brought before him, and Donovan wondered if he was dreaming anew. 

“My boys found him skulking just outside one of the border villages,” Rhiannon said. “We interrogated him, of course, but he doesn’t seem to be a scout or a soldier. We’re not sure where he came from, or why he’s here, but we just couldn’t let him slip through our fingers.”

This elf would not soon fade into the night. The chains around his wrists would make sure of that, although they were not the heavy iron manacles commonly used to bind a prisoner of war. They were slim but strong, wrought of gold, designed to bind a prized slave. Unhindered by his bindings, the elf walked with catlike grace. The soldiers on either side of him looked hopelessly clumsy by comparison. But he did not run, nor did he resist as they led him to the king. His head was held high, his expression serene. As beautiful as any slave, as haughty as any prince, he defied judgment. Donovan could not tear his eyes away.

When the elf reached the front of the hall, a soldier’s heavy hand on his shoulder convinced him to kneel. He did so, although he did not bow his head. His eyes were the color of sunrise.

“So long as he’s not a threat, I don’t need to know where he comes from,” Rhiannon continued. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s a gift from the gods—fit for a king.”

“Or perhaps a good luck charm,” Donovan said. The elf was close enough to reach out and touch. Donovan did so, half expecting to find the elf no more substantial than a beam of sunlight. Instead his fingertips brushed warm copper skin. His thumb traced syrup-brown lips. The elf’s eyes burned with an unreadable expression. His lips pressed against Donovan’s thumb, a kiss that sent a shudder up his arm and down his spine. “He’s breathtaking. Thank you, General. I’ll be sure to enjoy him.” With a breath of laughter and a clap on the shoulder, Rhiannon faded away into the crowd. Despite the chaos and revelry all around him, Donovan felt that there were only two people left on Earth.

He wanted a closer look. He hesitated for only a moment before realizing that no one would begrudge their king a moment of indulgence. Perhaps Rhiannon was right. He couldn’t forget the weight on his shoulders, but this new slave was a truly exquisite distraction. Donovan beckoned him close. The elf stood, letting himself be led along until he was straddling the king’s lap. His hands braced against Donovan’s chest, but did not push him away. Up close, the elf’s eyes were impossibly bright. Looking directly at him felt like staring into an eclipse. Donovan would not mourn if this slave’s face was the last thing he ever saw.

“Do you have a name?” he said.

“Auberon,” the elf said. His voice was like silk, as slippery and soft to the touch as the flimsy fir green dress that only just shielded his modesty. It was designed to entice rather than conceal, and his features were accentuated by stolen jewelry. Three jewels on each ear, a emerald stud in his nose, a glittering gold chain connecting the latter to an earring. A string of shining citrine was braided into his hair, and anklets tinkled and sang each time he shifted his feet.

“Auberon,” Donovan said, tasting the name on his tongue. The dress draped in such a way that it exposed Auberon’s slim waist and the subtle curve of his hip. Donovan traced the outline of his body with one hand. “You’re quite a mystery, Auberon.”

“I thought humans liked mysteries.” Intricate tattoos in black ink decorated his arms and dipped across his chest. His throat was bare, as if he was made to be collared by a king.

“I do not,” Donovan said. “I want to know everything about you.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

Donovan should have reminded the new slave of his place. Should have slapped him, pulled his hair, wrapped a hand around his throat, commanded him to show the proper respect. Instead Donovan kissed him. Drunken whoops and cheers rose up from the carousing soldiers, but Donovan barely heard them, and Auberon didn’t seem to care. King and slave alike tasted stolen wine.

Perhaps Donovan had indulged too much. Perhaps that was alright. When he pulled away from the kiss, his head spun. Only Auberon’s face was clear and still. He might have been in chains, but Donovan felt as if he was the one being pulled along on the end of a leash. Complicated feelings were easily banished by staring into those burning eyes. The wine made the room sway and dip, but Donovan wanted to get drunk on Auberon’s attention. 

There were limits to what a even a king could get away with in a crowded banquet hall. Donovan decided that he had given this celebration its due. He needed to rest, although he doubted he would be sleeping that night. He coaxed Auberon off his lap and rose to his feet. The elf was taller than him. Most men were, but although that had vexed a younger Donovan, he had long since perfected the art of letting his presence and power make him seem larger than he was. When Donovan caressed Auberon’s face, the slave leaned into his touch, and when Donovan led, Auberon followed like a devoted hound.

A soldier’s chorus bade the king goodnight. Donovan acknowledged them with a wave, and for the first time that night, his smile reached his eyes. The gift of a slave could not fully erase the sorrow and dread that even now weighed him down, but for now, for Auberon, Donovan would allow himself to be distracted.

It was quieter in the hallways that led through the fortress. The guards that shadowed the king uttered not a word. Donovan could finally hear himself think, although his wine-soaked thoughts were not coming from the head on his shoulders. Auberon’s hand in his was soft. Even Donovan’s privileged life had left him with the calluses of a warrior, but this slave, it seemed, had never done a day’s labor in his life. How long did elves live? Auberon appeared youthful, but he may well have been a hundred years Donovan’s senior. Donovan found that he didn’t rightfully care.

“Your soldiers took care to ensure I remained a virgin,” Auberon said. His voice flowed and laughed like a clear, cold brook. “They were many years too late, but I applaud their dedication. They seemed to think their king deserved only the unspoiled finest.”

“Your experience makes you all the more valuable,” Donovan said. “I already know you are skilled with your tongue.”

“Oh, but Master, I haven’t yet given you a true demonstration.”

All of the sudden, the baron’s bedchambers seemed unbearably far away. They were not alone, of course. As always a small army of servants and guards waited to attend to the king’s every need. But the servants remained out of sight, and the guards showed a remarkable level of professionalism when Donovan backed Auberon up against the wall and kissed him hard. Auberon draped his chains around the back of Donovan’s neck and twined his fingers through the king’s hair. Donovan’s hands slipped beneath the artfully draped fabric of Auberon’s dress and found that he was wearing nothing underneath. 

A scream was the first sign that something was wrong. “Sire!” a guard exclaimed, but Donovan had already ducked out of Auberon’s embrace and whirled around to face the source of the sound. On one end of the hall, towards the banquet, flames began to lick along the walls. On the other, masked mercenaries rushed toward the Kingsguard, weapons drawn. 

Donovan drew his sword, standing his ground between Auberon and the intruders. They crashed upon his guard first, and the ringing of steel dragged Donovan kicking and screaming from the pleasant fog of wine and arousal into harsh clarity. Well, clarity was a strong word. Donovan did not know for sure if he could fight with the same skill and steadiness he was accustomed to. There was only one way of finding out. 

They were outnumbered, two guards and one king against… Donovan was not sure how many. They were quick as shadows, and his eyes could not keep track. Behind them, the flames consuming the door kept them from fleeing or calling for reinforcements. Rhiannon, despite her old age, would be a godsend, and Donovan half expected her to charge through the flames to defend her king. She did not. Donovan wondered how far the flames spread into the banquet hall, how many of his soldiers were at risk.

The first guard fell, and two… three? Mercenaries surged toward the king. Donovan struck before they had a chance, forcing one into a defensive stance. Another swung, and Donovan ducked under a blow designed to cut his throat. He kept up the assault on the mercenary before him. His aim was not what it should be, but the wine had no effect on his brute strength. Donovan knocked the sword out of the mercenary’s hand and drove his own blade through their stomach. The leather armor provided some resistance but did not deter the killing blow. 

“Master!” Auberon cried. The warning caused Donovan to lurch to the side, out of the way of a knife aiming for his back. He yanked his sword out of the falling mercenary and turned to face the other… two. Yes, there were two, he was sure of that, and more held back by his remaining guard. Rhiannon was nowhere to be found, unlike the creeping clouds of smoke. 

Donovan raised his sword to parry a flurry of blows, and he was sure that each one was going to be the death of him. He couldn’t keep up the defense for long, addled as he was. Bit by bit he lost ground, backed up against the spreading flames.

A shriek of rage heralded the arrival of a new combatant. It was a voice Donovan knew well, but did not expect to hear. There was the sound of a body hitting the floor, and for a moment, the mercenaries were distracted. Donovan swiftly dispatched one of them, but the moment his guard was down the hilt of a sword connected with his head. Donovan stumbled, dropping to one knee. The mercenary reached out for him, but was knocked aside by a full-body tackle. 

Donovan’s savior was a young soldier, much shorter than him but solidly built and with plenty of experience knocking some sense into a larger opponent. She brought the mercenary to the ground, coming in too close for them to make use of their weapons, and planted the point of her blade under their chin.

“Surrender,” she growled. The mercenary’s swords clattered as they dropped. 

The surviving Kingsguard rushed to her side, taking the mercenary’s hands and binding them securely. Only then did the soldier rush to her king’s side.

“Donnie!” she said. “Are you alright?”

Head aching, vision blurred, Donovan wondered if he was imagining things. He took his rescuer’s hand, and she helped him to his feet. “What are you doing here?” he said.

“I heard there were intruders, I knew they’d be coming for you. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

Donovan’s eyes kept sliding to the right. He focused himself to focus on her face. After a moment’s contemplation, the reason for his confusion settled in with dizzying clarity. His sisters were supposed to be back home in Bellyne, but here one of them stood, armored as one of the common guards without any tabard or crest to distinguish her as a princess. Donovan’s growing anger must have shown in his eyes, because Aife’s expression hardened, preparing for an argument.

“I told you to stay home,” Donovan growled. 

“I have as much right to be here as you do!” In an instant, Aife’s demeanor had shifted, going from that of a battle hardened warrior to that of a not-yet-grown woman rehashing the same argument with her brother over and over again until both of them were blue in the face.

“Not after being specifically commanded—may I remind you, by your king—to stay in Bellyne.” It took all of Donovan’s self-control not to shout. It would be unbecoming to chastise the princess in front of an audience, although the frustration and fury radiating from him was such that the servants rushing past to douse the flames gave the king a wide berth.

“Oh, so it’s perfectly noble of you to ride across the border on your quest for vengeance, but Andraste and I have to sit at home with our thumbs up our asses as if nothing’s wrong?”

Donovan was trying so hard not to shout, but he was only a mortal man. “Yes!” he snapped, then immediately regretted it, for the fury that twisted up Aife’s face but mostly for the way the stress was making his head pound. He clutched his forehead in one hand, and nearly decked the next person to try to get his attention.

He would have regretted that even more, because that person was Rhiannon. She stood at attention, opening her mouth to give a report. Then she narrowed her eyes and reached out, touching the side of Donovan’s head. Pain like a firebomb going off behind his eyes made the king hiss, and he swatted her hand away. Her fingertips were bloodied. “Why are you standing up?” she said in the same tone of voice Donovan recognized from the many disciplines he’d received as a young soldier. “This injury could be serious. You need to get to a healer right away. Are you able to walk? Here, lean on me.”

Arguing with her was an expression of futility, but still Donovan scanned the hall in search of more pressing matters that required the king’s attention. The remaining Kingsguard tended to his fallen companion. The soldiers that had arrived with Rhiannon dragged the captured mercenary off to the dungeons. Servants hurried back and forth, cleaning up the blood and bodies or putting out the flames. Aife stormed away, her nose pointed at the air. That conversation was not over.

Donovan let Rhiannon drape his arm around her shoulders and lead him to the infirmary. He felt himself sway, but she kept him steady. There was a soft rattle of chains and jewels as Auberon followed dutifully behind.

When Donovan finally lay down, he didn’t think he’d ever get up. The night’s drama left him bone-weary, his senses dulled except for the throbbing of his head. The healer’s proclaimed that the injury was not serious, and that he would soon recover. A merciful demise, snatched from his grip at the last moment. Rhiannon rolled her eyes, and Donovan realized belatedly that he’d said that last bit out loud. 

Auberon sat by the door, his legs cross primly at the knee, his hands folded in his lap. He was staring out into the middle distance, perhaps seeing something humans could not, perhaps bored out of his mind. Donovan was watching him like one might watch a rainbow after a storm. Auberon caught him staring, turned to meet the king’s gaze. His lips curled into a smile, but it did not reach his eyes. 

“One of the gatekeepers fell asleep on duty,” Rhiannon said, dragging an unwilling Donovan back to reality. “At first I suspected laziness, but its possible he was drugged. He will still spend the night in the dungeons, of course.”

“Of course,” Donovan said. 

Rhiannon continued, “But I sent the remains of his dinner to the herbalist. She says she’ll have an answer for us by tomorrow morning.”

“Casualties?”

“Just one, your Kingsguard, but even that is too many.” Rhiannon’s expression grew somber, resonating with the ache that settled in Donovan’s chest, not from any injury, but rivaling the pain in his head. They’d lost too many already.

Donovan was confined to bed on Rhiannon’s orders, but he did not sleep. Every time he was tempted to leave his duties to future Donovan, a messenger brought new information. The fires were put out, but the banquet hall would not be usable for a long while. Aife was guarding the fortress gates, but there were rumors of a saboteur within the walls. The captive was unmasked, but refused to speak. She didn’t need to. Donovan had fought Foxfang mercenaries before, and he knew who they answered to. Still, he ordered his wardens to continue with the interrogation.

Finally, sometime in the ungodly hours of the morning, the fortress quieted. Donovan took the opportunity to creep out of the infirmary in search of a more comfortable bed. His head ached, but was no longer addled by wine. Despite his lack of sleep, Donovan felt for the first time in several hours that he had a handle on his senses. He made his way through the fortress to the baron’s chambers. Nodding to the Kingsguard, he closed the door and was alone for the first time all day and night. 

Well, not quite. Auberon was curled up in the baron’s bed, his jewelry removed, his hair let loose from its braid. His wrists, folded up against his chest, were still chained, but that had not stopped him from falling fast sleep. Donovan wondered if this was a sign of trust for his new master, or if exhaustion had left him no other choice. It hardly mattered, Donovan did not intend to take advantage of the slave’s vulnerability. He undressed quietly, stripping to a loose shirt and breeches, and slipped under the covers. 

Perhaps elves had senses beyond human knowledge, or perhaps Donovan was not as quiet as he intended. Auberon’s eyes fluttered open, staring unseeing for a moment or two before they settled on the king. Up close, Donovan could see that Auberon’s lashes, like his hair, were pale as spun gold. “Go back to sleep,” Donovan murmured. 

Auberon was slow to respond as he shook off the lingering grasp of sleep. Was he struggling to speak in a foreign language? Was he taking time to remember where he was, why he was chained in the bed of a stranger? His expression soon softened, and he reached out to brush delicate fingertips against Donovan’s cheek. “I think I’d rather stay awake,” he said.

Donovan took the slave’s hand, pressed a kiss to his palm. “Suit yourself,” he said. “I think I’d rather not.” But he would rather have a warm body pressed against his during these stolen hours of rest. Donovan slipped an arm around Auberon’s waist, pulled him close. They fit together like puzzle pieces, his face pillowed against the slave’s shoulder. The perfume Auberon had been prepared with was sultry and complex, a touch of rose alongside something Donovan couldn’t place. He sighed until his lungs were empty and closed his eyes, letting himself drift. 

Auberon’s hands playing under the hem of his shirt brought him back. “It’s been a difficult night,” the slave said. “Perhaps His Majesty would appreciate some help forgetting what troubles him.”

Donovan’s one sensible brain cell screamed in protest. The rest of him was intrigued. The recent drama had robbed him of a peaceful night spent with the most beautiful slave he’d ever laid eyes on, and Donovan did not easily accept being denied what was rightfully his. He opened his eyes, pressed a kiss to Auberon’s throat. “Perhaps I would,” he said.

Donovan braced his hands against the bed, lifted himself up so that he loomed over Auberon, his arms boxing him in on either side. The slave rolled over on his back, his bound arms coming up in between them. It might have seemed a defensive gesture, if he did not also bend one knee to press between the king’s thighs, or turn his head to the side so that the elegant lines of his throat were exposed. He danced on the thin line between putting up a show of resistance or offering himself unconditionally, all depending on what his master desired. Either way, his body was artfully arranged in order to beguile and entice. 

Rather than sinking into the honeytrap’s sticky sweet embrace, Donovan found himself wondering what kind of life had created such a creature. Held captive in a strange land, Auberon offered himself eagerly to his captor rather than resist. Of course, Donovan was not so naive to believe that it was sincere. Was Auberon only playing along as he waited for an opportunity to escape, or did he hope that by enchanting the king he might gain some kind of power? Was he inwardly seething, such that it took all of his skill to appear compliant? Or did he take some strange pride in using his body to advance his goals?

“Master, please don’t keep me waiting,” Auberon said. His voice was breathless and sultry, as if he had already been teased and denied for hours.

Perhaps it was sincere. Perhaps he had accepted his fate—a life as a beautiful plaything, knowing that his best chance at comfort and safety lay in earning his master’s affection.

Affection, at least, Donovan was willing to give. He leaned down, pressing his lips to Auberon’s in a slow kiss. He realized belatedly that he must taste of the strong herbal medicines the healers bullied him into drinking, but Auberon didn’t seem to mind. The slave moaned against Donovan’s lips, bringing his hands up to cup either side of the king’s face. Donovan took that as encouragement, and rolled his hips so that he ground down against Auberon’s thigh. The pressure against his cock made him gasp, and he felt Auberon’s lips twitch into a smile.

The kiss broke, and Auberon slid his hands down the king’s body—or tried to. In the blink of an eye, Donovan grabbed Auberon’s chains and dragged his hands up and over his head. Surprise, followed by renewed arousal flashed across the slave’s face. He yanked against his bonds, but neither the manacles nor Donovan’s grasp gave an inch. He continued to struggle, of course, if only to show off the way his muscles flexed and strained. Was he feigning enjoyment at the sensation of being overpowered? The distinct tent in his dress indicated otherwise. Donovan pressed his free hand against Auberon’s hard cock, and a truly filthy sound spilled from the slave’s lips. 

A few firm strokes left Auberon aching for more, but Donovan left him to squirm as he unlocked one golden cuff, threaded the chain through the carved wood of the headboard, and bound Auberon once more. “Oh fuck,” Auberon said, and the curse sounded like a prayer, spoken in a reverent whisper. Donovan leaned off the bed, searching the nearby furniture until he found what he was looking for, a bottle of oil. He popped out the cork and poured some on one hand. It smelled like Auberon’s perfume. Donovan lay down beside him, his head resting on Auberon’s shoulder, their legs tangling together, his hand pulling back the slave’s skirt.

Auberon’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him, curved and flushed, surrounded by a neat patch of curly blond hair. It was bigger than Donovan’s, although he had long since given up on worrying about that sort of thing. It was much more pleasant to be delighted than insecure, and delighted he was, especially as he wrapped his hand around it. His thumb slid over the delicate head, sending a shudder all the way through Auberon’s body. Pressed close together, he could feel each helpless squirm, could feel the slave’s hot, ragged breath against his temple.

“His Majesty knows how to treat a lover,” Auberon said, too elegantly for him to be nearly as aroused as he was pretending to be. Donovan would have to change that.

“The best slaves are always so put together,” he purred. “I want to see you fall apart.”

If Auberon intended to come up with a witty response, the deft strokes of Donovan’s hand swiftly banished it from his mind. Before long he was gasping for breath, every exhale a needy moan. Donovan worked him over quickly, mercilessly, stoking the fire in the slave’s belly until he was rutting into his master’s hot, slick hand. Donovan wondered when Auberon had last attended to his own pleasure. Had he been forbidden from doing so? Had he held off, wanting to save himself for his master’s enjoyment? Perhaps his needs had nothing to do with it, and his pleasure was made more potent by the novelty of having his master’s undivided attention. Whatever the reason, Auberon’s defenses were penetrated. He cursed, not with the voice of a wilting flower, but of a man on the verge of breaking. He remained as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more so as he arched his back, decorating his fine dress with hot ropes of cum. 

And Donovan didn’t stop. He kissed Auberon’s cheek, the corner of his mouth. The slave’s lips were parted around a strangled cry. “Master—” he pleaded, but whatever he was about to say was lost in Donovan’s relentless grip. The king’s other hand slid down Auberon’s body, tracing his inner thigh, circling his hole—tighter than Donovan expected, cupping his balls and squeezing them gently. 

Auberon writhed, twisting his hips this way and that as if he could escape the king’s hands. But of course that was quite impossible. The chains held fast, and Donovan hooked a leg around Auberon’s, pinning him in place. A moment of uncertainty, and Donovan leaned back so that he could properly study the slave’s face. Had he gone too far? Had Auberon stopped pretending that he wanted this? But written across Auberon’s face was only bliss, and when those golden eyes met Donovan’s, they were dazed as they were dazzling, but also warm. 

The anxiety passed, and Donovan returned to savoring the feeling of Auberon, helpless in his grasp. When struggling proved futile, the slave turned his head so that he was nose to nose with his master. Donovan smiled gently, leaning in for a kiss, but Auberon pulled away. Catching enough breath to speak was a superhuman task, but in between whimpers and gasps Auberon forced the words out; “I’m supposed to please you.”

“You are pleasing me,” Donovan said. Frustration flashed across Auberon’s face, immediately replaced by ecstasy as a second orgasm rocked him to his core. He slumped against the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes closed.

“God fucking damnit,” Auberon said, his voice hazy with exhaustion and satisfaction. “Just use me.”

Donovan thought about it. It was true, he hadn’t gotten off since the night he had become king. That had been by design. But as he admired Auberon, laid out like a feast for his pleasure, Donovan found that he couldn’t say no.

“As you wish,” he said. Auberon’s eyes flew open, just in time for Donovan to drag him into a kiss. This one was over quickly, as both of them were hungry for more. Donovan wiped the oil and cum off his hands, then unfastened the chain that bound Auberon to the bed. He helped the slave sit up, then locked his wrists behind his back. A smile crossed Auberon’s lips, and there was an eager light in his eyes that made him look quite unlike the docile slave that had been brought before the king. In that moment, Donovan felt as if he had caught a glimpse of Auberon’s soul, and in it he saw lust and ambition in equal measure. 

Now, however, Donovan was able to manipulate Auberon’s well-used body like a puppet until he was kneeling on the bed, facing his master. Only then did Donovan start to undress. The shirt remained, but he slipped out of his trousers with no fanfare and only a flicker of hesitation. 

To his credit, Auberon gave no indication that he saw was anything different than what he might have expected. Donovan respected that, and it made the desire on the slave’s face that much more intoxicating. “You promised me a demonstration,” Donovan said. “Show me what that tongue can do other than seduce and lie.”

That got a reaction. Auberon’s smile did not falter, but it took on a cold edge. “Surely I’m guilty of only one of those things,” he said. 

Donovan continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I don’t know if you were a slave in the country of the elves. You play the part exquisitely well, but perhaps you were just a slut that’s far too clever for your own good.”

Auberon’s expression of innocence was transparently fake, deliberately so. He didn’t have to be convincing, he only needed to be beautiful. “Why does my past matter?” he said. “My present is bound to be far more entertaining.”

Donovan brought him close, balancing him so that he could bend down without falling. Auberon’s hair fell in his face, and Donovan brushed it aside. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re a snake, but you know better than to turn your fangs on your master, don’t you?”

Auberon’s answer was his tongue stroking over Donovan’s folds, then delivering a teasing flick to his cock. Not enough to distract from the previous conversation, but a powerful argument to keep the slave around anyway. Of course, Donovan had already decided to do just that.

The king reclined against the extravagant pillows, one hand gripping the covers, the other tangled in Auberon’s hair. The slave’s tongue honed in on Donovan’s cock, moving in steady circles that caused the king’s arousal to build with dizzying speed. It wasn’t just tongue, either—Donovan felt something hot and hard, a point of pressure that seemed to heighten sensation and turn his thoughts to a sultry fog. It seemed that Auberon had left some of his jewelry in, and he used it to staggering effect.

Donovan’s first orgasm crashed over him with such force that time seemed to stretch out and refract. He spent an eternity being driven to new heights of exaltation. The world consisted of nothing but shaking thighs, a slave’s tongue, his hand in Auberon’s hair. When Donovan came back into his body, he realized that Auberon had slowed, but not stopped. The slave closed his lips around his king’s cock and sucked hard, driving Donovan back up to his peak. 

Three times? Four? Donovan lost count. All he knew was that Auberon didn’t stop until the king made him, using the last of his strength to drag him away by pale gold hair. Donovan slumped down to the bed. Auberon remained in a position of worship, kneeling, his hands bound, his forehead resting on his master’s thigh. Donovan reached out, gathered Auberon into his arms, wiped his face, kissed his head.

When Donovan unlocked Auberon’s chains, the slave’s wrists were reddened and chafed. Donovan held him in his lap and rubbed salve onto the damaged skin. Auberon leaned his head on Donovan’s shoulder, forehead tucked into the crook of his neck. Auberon didn’t seem so much like a snake, not now, limp and pliant and letting himself be cared for. Even when Donovan was finished with his task, he didn’t let go. He kissed Auberon’s cheek, held his hands, listened to the way their breathing changed until they seemed to be one being. Somewhere in between one moment and the next, king and slave fell asleep to the music of a silent night.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, the servants had come in to tuck the king and his slave under the blankets and to leave water and medicine for when the king was inevitably dragged out of bed half-asleep, hating everything that walked the earth. Well, not everything. Auberon stirred as Donovan rose out of bed, blinking blearily and muttering nonsense. Donovan stroked his hair and told him to go back to sleep, and so he did.

Despite wanting nothing more than to be back in bed, Donovan knew that he had precious few minutes before more servants arrived to help him dress and inform him of anything else that had gone wrong during the night. The first order of business was to wash himself, then put on clean undergarments. His body was hardly a secret, especially among the staff, but he valued what little privacy he was able to keep—which, as it turns out, was significantly less than he’d enjoyed as a prince. Covering the bare minimum was just about all he could do, and so that was what he did. He drank a glass of water, then another, then downed the tincture that had been prepared for him. It was was a powerful and tricky medicine, made by the finest clerics in the nation. He knew not what was in it, whether the bitter herbs were made potent by mother nature or a blessing from the gods themselves. All he knew was that he enjoyed the effects; his deep voice, the hair on his face and chest, his cock. A shame about the taste, and the fact that it didn’t make him any taller, but there wasn’t a problem on earth that had a perfect solution. 

Donovan was still wincing at the taste when there was a knock on the door. Without waiting for an answer, two servants bustled in. “Good morning, Your Majesty!” one said, speaking in Old Sheridan. The language was rarely used among the nobility, but any king would be a fool not to speak it. All of the old manuscripts were written in the traditional script, not that Donovan had ever been an avid student of literature, but so were countless songs and stories of gods and heroes. And of course, the language was still preferred by the common folk, people who Donovan’s ancestors had learned the hard way to respect.

But there were two servants here, and one of them did not seem to respond when Donovan greeted them in the traditional tongue. A glance at him told why. He was one of the fortress’s previous occupants, a resident of Albionne. Likely he had offered his services to avoid being slain like the soldiers who once defended the border. Donovan’s soldiers were not in the habit of killing noncombatants, but he did not necessarily know that. What he did know was that few soldiers would kill those who offered them food and labor. He hid his fear behind a polished veneer of professionalism, but his eyes spoke clearly, and they said that he did not want to be within a hundred miles of the warrior king of Sherid.

“Good morning,” Donovan repeated, this time in Albionnese. The servant’s stoic facade faltered, if only for a moment. Donovan did not have time to wait for a response, because the other, a woman from his homeland, was ushering him over to the wardrobe to help him dress. It wasn’t that he needed the assistance; the clothes he preferred were understated, suiting his station, but not uncomfortable or ostentatious. It was miracle workers like her that helped him look good enough that the more frivolous courtiers could look past their king’s lackluster drapery. There were few fat cat courtiers here on the front lines, but the morning routine remained the same.

Donovan donned trousers and a tunic with braided embroidery around the sleeves and collar. His boots were well-worn, made of butter-soft leather that clicked against stone but made not a sound when he traveled through the wild. The last piece of the outfit was a fur cloak, draped around the king’s shoulders and clasped with his royal crest, a horse set against a shining sun. It was spring, but the mornings in Albionne were still cold. He wrapped the cloak around himself and ensured that the servants leave one for Auberon as well. 

Donovan turned, and there was the servant from Albionne, holding a jewelry box. “Thank you,” Donovan said in Albionnese, and the servant smiled. Donovan threaded an earring through one of his piercings; it was an ancient symbol resembling a braided rope, representing eternity. It reminded him of his connection to his ancestors, his father and mother and all the kings and queens that came before him. He hoped beyond all hope that he was bringing dignity to their legacy, that they looked on him with pride. His other piercing was rarely taken out; a silver septum ring bearing a single emerald. He’d woken up with that one and a hangover the morning after he’d been promoted to captain, and his company had taken him out to celebrate. He thought it made him look rather dashing.

The last item in the box was a gold circlet. The king’s crown was locked away in the fortress’s vault, but Donovan did not need to wear it in the day to day. In truth, he wore it less than he should. His duties were heavy enough without a solid gold reminder. The circlet served its purpose well enough, embellished with an image of the shining sun. It was almost lost in Donovan’s hair. The servant brushed his bangs aside with her hand. “Handsome as always, Your Majesty,” she said with fondness that went beyond that of a subject’s for her ruler. 

With a parting glance at the slumbering Auberon, Donovan departed. Breakfast was prepared for him in the parlor, but that wasn’t all that was waiting for him. Aife had shed her armor in favor of something lighter, but warm, much like what Donovan wore. They hadn’t brought a crown or jewelry for her. She didn’t rise to greet Donovan, but rather fixed him with a fierce glare, daring him to chastise her. Donovan was ready—nay, eager—to rise to that challenge.

“You’ll return home at once,” he said, in lieu of a good morning. He sat down and poured himself a cup of tea, preparing for an endless and bloody battle of wills.

“I think I shan’t, actually,” Aife said. She did not touch her breakfast, despite the fact that she’d likely had little more than soldier’s rations since leaving home.

“I wasn’t asking your opinion.”

“Well you aren’t going to send your dear sister away unguarded, nor are you going to spare any soldiers to escort me. I am going nowhere.”

She was right, and it burned. Donovan had a long campaign ahead of him, and he couldn’t spare any of his fighters—although her defiance tempted him to do so anyway—nor could he send Aife away without anything less than the best protecting her. “Why did you come here?” he said. “I’ve got a war to fight, I can’t afford to spend time worrying about you.”

“Then don’t worry about me!” Donovan rarely raised his voice, but Aife had a unique talent for wearing down his patience. “I can fight just as well as anyone here.”

“Even the best soldier can die, which is why I told you to stay home!”

“So you’ll risk your life, but not mine?”

“Albionne attacked us, and they have to answer for that! It’s my duty to—”

“It’s my duty as much as yours! You aren’t more related to them just because you’re older. Mother and Father are dead and I deserve a chance at vengeance!”

Donovan slammed his fist on the table. The dishes rattled more than Aife did. She did not flinch, even when Donovan shouted, “Don’t interrupt me!”

Aife fell silent, but she was not cowed. She stared Donovan down with the same fearlessness that she would a wild beast or a soldier twice her size, but she knew in her heart of hearts that this would never devolve into violence. For all his bullying, Donnie would never lay a hand on his baby sister. She knew this, and he knew that she knew. He took a deep breath, trying to rein in his temper. Perhaps this would be easier if she was frightened of him, but he didn’t wish that, not for a moment. 

When Donovan spoke again, his voice was calm, although his anger had not fully subsided. He knew that he had no choice. “I’ll arrange an escort by the end of the day. You will leave tomorrow and return to Bellyne, and there you will stay.”

Aife leaped out of her chair, sending it clattering to the ground. “Donovan, this is bullshit! You have no right to send me back!”

But of course he had every right. He was the king. More importantly, he was the eldest, and the head of the family in their parents absence. His authority was woven into the fabric of their society, and Aife had two choices; reject everything she had been taught or submit. Knowing this, Donovan’s voice remained steady. “It is my duty to avenge our mother and father, just as it is your duty to rule Sherid until I return. Goodbye, Aife.”

A civil debate was doomed from the start. Donovan ducked under a fine china plate, and it crashed against the wall. He took his leave, instructing a servant to come back in a few minutes to clean up the mess. He had other duties to attend to; after all, they were only just across the border, with all of Albionne ahead of them.

When the king and his entourage filed out of the room, Auberon stopped pretending to sleep. He sat up, stretched his arms out above his head. His movements were silent, and that threw him off for a moment until he realized that there was no longer a rattle of chains and jewelry. How quickly he had gotten used to them. The chains, at least, had been forced on him, but he was starting to realize that he didn’t mind, so long as Donovan held the other end of his leash. 

The bed of a king was not where Auberon had expected life to take him, but he had no intention of resisting this strange turn of fate. Donovan the man seemed unlikely to harm him, and Donovan the king might be Auberon’s ticket to power in the court. Although he might chafe at the restrictions placed on a royal slave, there was no rule that could not be bypassed via careful application of wit or beauty. 

Clothes had been laid out for him, a pair of tight trousers and a tunic that hung off his shoulders. How practical. Auberon would have to find something looser, or even a proper skirt, but today he had other business to tend to. His wardrobe could wait until the army returned to Sherid and his master had the resources to spoil him properly. 

The chill in Albionne was pervasive. Auberon still wasn’t used to it, although he didn’t dare complain, didn’t dare reveal the slightest vulnerability. He would not admit to being touched when he found a fur cloak laid out on the bed, dark wool lined with champagne fur. Auberon draped it around his shoulders. It must have been Donovan’s; it smelled like him, and was slightly too short. As far as Auberon was concerned, it was his now. 

When Auberon left the room, he proceeded through the halls of the fortress unhindered. He wondered if Donovan had instructed the guards to let him roam freely, or if they assumed unbidden that he was permitted to come and go as he pleased. He wondered if the gatekeepers would be so lax. Unlikely, but Auberon had no intention of leaving.

He made his way instead to the herbalist’s office. The king’s toy was unlikely to be kept updated on the saboteur situation, but his curiosity was relentless. Even more tempting, the look on Donovan’s face when his slave led him to the spy. Donovan had called him a snake. Auberon didn’t know whether to prove him wrong or right. 

It was early in the morning, and the herbalist didn’t appear to have slept. She was facing away from the doorway, arranging a line of jars filled with some dark green mixture on the windowsill. “Don’t touch anything,” she said without turning around. 

“His Majesty was informed that a gatekeeper may have been drugged,” Auberon said. His common was flawless, lightly accented, but still felt clumsy compared to his native tongue. He showed no sign of discomfort, of course. Let the humans believe he was as eloquent as their finest bard or poet. “Is there any truth to that?”

“Rumors and fear-mongering,” the herbalist said. “I tested his rations myself. The fool fell asleep on the job and told ghost stories to cover his own hide.”

“May I see them for myself? I don’t presume to question your expertise, but it is curious that the intruders knew exactly when and where to enter the fortress unseen.” Through locked gates, on a night that half the army was incapacitated. Curious indeed. 

The herbalist turned, finally paying attention to the one who was addressing her. Her eyes raked over Auberon’s body, and she did not bother to hide her disdain. “Does your master know you are unsupervised?” she sneered. 

Auberon smiled, showing charm and venom in equal measure. “I may do as I please, so long as I come when His Majesty commands me.”

The herbalist turned away, retrieving a bundle of dried herbs from a high shelf. One by one, she plucked leaves from the stem and dropped them into a stone bowl. “Maybe so. Even still, you are bold to insert yourself into matters of state. I am unfamiliar with the practices of your kind, but in Sherid we do not value slaves for their boldness.”

If this was boldness, then what Auberon intended to do was madness. This artisan, educated and respected, had no idea what kind of courage it took to bear the weight of slavery. But of course, Auberon was unlike any slave she had ever encountered. “You would not threaten me if you had nothing to hide.”

The herbalist whipped around to fix Auberon with a fiery glare. Stone clashed against stone as she brought down her pestle, grinding the herbs into the mortar. “Fine,” she snapped. “Examine the fool’s rations, then leave me to my work.”

On the table was stale bread, a pouch of dried meat, and a flask of watered-down ale. The bread was partially eaten, but not tampered with. The meat would tide Auberon over until the midday meal. And the ale… Auberon sniffed it, but did not drink. He smelled barley and hops, and beneath it a hint of bitterness, too subtle to be detected unless one was looking for it. Auberon had some knowledge of herb-lore, and the powerful sleeping draught’s scent was familiar. He could not remember the exact recipe, but he didn’t need to; this was just what he had expected to find.

“I could understand if you were disloyal, or a poor liar, but to be both at once and hold such a respected position? I’m impressed.”

“No one will believe you, whore.”

“Care to gamble on that?” Auberon set down the flask. His words dripped from his lips, slow and sweet as honey. “The king is fascinated with my tongue. I speak and he hangs on every word.”

The herbalist continued with her work, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her unease. Auberon was willing to bet that if she faced him, he would see fear in her eyes. He slipped soundlessly around the table, approaching her workbench. When he next spoke, the herbalist jumped, not expecting him to be so near. 

“I am new to your culture,” Auberon said. “I don’t truthfully know how His Majesty punishes traitors. I know that I’ll soon learn, either from you or your accomplice.”

She whirled on him, brandishing her dusted pestle like a weapon pointed at Auberon’s chest. His icy grin was a stark contrast to the growing terror on her face. “Your mouth is a cockholster and nothing more. No one will listen to a word you say.” 

“You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you?” Auberon said. “But let’s say His Majesty doesn’t listen to me. Someone will. A Kingsguard, perhaps. And soldiers talk. When they learn who was responsible for the king’s injury, for the murder of their companion, what do you think they’ll do?”

She was bribed, of course she was. Someone like her—clever, ruthless, prideful—always had a price. If only she hadn’t been too proud to properly cover her tracks. In exchange for a promise of silence—a lie, of course—Auberon was directed to the quarters of one Captain Burgess. He was new to his position, having recently replaced his more experienced but unfortunately dead predecessor. Still, the presence of another traitor so high up in the army’s ranks was worrisome. How many were there? Was this a sign of poor leadership on the part of the king, or something more sinister? Auberon intended to find the answer. 

It was mid-morning, and all but the night watch were currently absorbed in their duties. There was only a locked door between Auberon and the answers he sought. Surely Burgess had the only key. Auberon took a moment to laugh to himself, imagining what life must be life for those who could be stopped by a simple lock. Then he began to murmur a spell. He traced a pattern over the lock with his index finger, and the door clicked open. Auberon slipped inside, no more than mildly inconvenienced. 

The captain’s quarters were practical rather than luxurious, although Auberon was willing to bet that there was treasure stashed in here somewhere—looted from the fortress’s previous occupants or paid as a bribe to open the gates. The lockbox was the obvious place to check, and no more difficult than opening the door. His suspicions were correct. Inside the sturdy box were coins from both countries, a flask of fine ale (which Auberon pocketed), and a selection of trinkets, trophies from fallen enemies or heirlooms offered as tribute. Auberon took a wood hairpin with pearl inlay, something to tide him over until he could braid his hair properly. Something else caught his eye; a copper medallion stamped with an emblem of a fox. He recognized the symbol, having seen it decorating the mercenaries that attacked the king. That was the proof Auberon needed, but he suspected that Burgess had neither the cunning nor the funds to be the puppetmaster pulling the strings. Who was?

Auberon closed the box, hearing it click as it locked in place once more. With any luck, Burgess wouldn’t notice his missing belongings until his former company was bearing down on him, chains in hand. Next was a rugged wood desk, its surface tidy save for a journal, which upon examination revealed only a business-like recount of events, omitting anything overtly treasonous. Closer inspection might reveal more evidence, but Auberon was on the hunt for something juicier (he took the journal anyway). 

The need for silence outweighed Auberon’s impatience. He opened and closed drawers slowly, methodically checking for secret compartments or buried documents. Most of them were empty. Perhaps Burgess hadn’t had the time to get settled in. Perhaps he wanted his belongings in easy reach for when he made his escape. Finally Auberon found what he was looking for, a drawer with a false bottom. Inside was a small scroll, designed to be carried by a messenger bird. The script was written in elegant common, short and to the point; a promise of substantial payment in exchange for the captain’s loyalty. Burgess likely kept it to ensure that his employer would carry out their end of the bargain, and that would prove his downfall. The letter was unsigned, but there was no need for a name. Auberon recognized the broken seal, red wax stamped with the crest of the King Raleigh of Albionne. 

There were rumors that elves had senses far beyond human comprehension. These rumors were exaggerated. Auberon had keen hearing, that much was true, but he was also prone to distraction when he got swept away by an exciting errand. He did not hear the door open, and he did not hear the soldier stalking toward him. He realized he was in danger when an arm wrapped around his chest, pinning him against an armored body, but he did not realize the extent of his peril until a hand holding a pungent cloth clapped over his mouth and nose. Auberon smelled bitter herbs. The world tilted on its axis, then faded from view.

The slave was bold indeed, but his efforts were for naught. Flames gnawed at the letter, reducing it to curls of ash, and when the king returned for the night, he would find his bed empty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rumors of a saboteur rang endlessly in Donovan’s mind. This could be a sign, or it could be a red herring, planted by another liar. And always his thoughts turned to Auberon. How could he have gotten past the guards? To say he was a memorable sight would be an understatement. Unless he was shielded by elven magic, someone had to have seen him leave. As Donovan considered the situation, he came to two conclusions. One; he was not satisfied letting Auberon slip away. Two; he needed the help of someone who would sooner die than betray his trust. Worse, he knew just the person. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags: hurt/comfort, blood and injury, magic. This chapter also features a darker picture of slavery and death than earlier, but it also has charming animal companions, so enjoy! As always, encouragement and constructive criticism is eagerly accepted.

The world faded back into existence, but darkness prevailed. Auberon was on his side, one of his arms pinned beneath him, and he had been in that position long enough to lose feeling from his elbow to his fingertips. His wrists were bound with rough rope and already beginning to chafe, despite his previous inability to struggle. A more dire problem was the cloth filling his mouth, fastened in place so that he could not push it out with his tongue. His tongue, his first and only defense. Without it, he had no magic, no way to seduce or threaten or lie his way out of danger. And he was in danger. He knew this from the numbness in his arm, the darkness around him, the sound of wagon wheels against stone bringing him to an unknown destination. But it was when the wagon stopped that he heard something that made his blood run cold; a wail, agonized and despairing. It was a song of human misery, a plea for mercy without any hope. The wagon lurched to a stop, and the tarp above Auberon was thrown aside, letting in the blinding sunlight. 

  


Auberon hadn’t returned. Donovan shouldn’t have been surprised, but he found that he was anyway. Deep in enemy territory, sending fighting men after a runaway slave could be a costly mistake, and besides, Donovan found the idea of dragging Auberon back against his will distasteful. A shame; Donovan had never had a more intriguing companion. But he cut his losses and wished Auberon well, even in the dead of night when his bed felt too large for just one person. 

Donovan never expected to see Auberon again, but the morning sun brought new information. One of the Kingsguard murmured to him at breakfast a message that a soldier had sent up the chain of command. Captain Burgess had left his post without explanation, and threatened any who questioned him. 

Rumors of a saboteur rang endlessly in Donovan’s mind. This could be a sign, or it could be a red herring, planted by another liar. And always his thoughts turned to Auberon. How could he have gotten past the guards? To say he was a memorable sight would be an understatement. Unless he was shielded by elven magic, someone had to have seen him leave. As Donovan considered the situation, he came to two conclusions. One; he was not satisfied letting Auberon slip away. Two; he needed the help of someone who would sooner die than betray his trust. Worse, he knew just the person. 

Aife had taken great pains to delay her departure, and even now remained locked in her rooms. Donovan knocked on her door, and did not know if it was respect for her king or love for her brother that convince her to crack it open. “I have nothing to say to you,” Aife said.

“I need your help,” Donovan whispered for her ears only. 

Aife slammed the door in his face. It took much cajoling and an appeal to her curiosity to convince her to let Donovan in. “You’ll delay my departure,” she said, her belongings still strewn across the room. 

“You’re not leaving yet,” Donovan said, locking the door behind him. Aife crossed her arms, hiding any sign of excitement behind a suspicious glower. “There’s a spy in the fortress, and I need someone trustworthy at my side.”

Aife’s frown deepened as she refused to be flattered by her brother’s admission. “You’ll trust me to help you hunt down a spy, but not on the battlefield?”

“That’s not important now. Aife, we need to focus on the task at hand.”

“I disagree. If you’re going to dispose of me and come crawling back the next day then I—”

“Aife.” Donovan took a deep breath, forcing his voice to remain quiet. “Please.”

Aife was silent, holding fast for a moment before the tension eased out of her. “Fine,” she said. “Let’s talk about your spy.”

Donovan explained the situation, the sleeping gatekeeper, the captain’s mysterious excursion, Auberon’s disappearance. When he mentioned the slave, Aife scoffed. “A traitor in our midst and you’re worried about your missing boytoy?”

“I believe the two issues are connected,” Donovan said. “The spy was able to get past the gatekeepers, and Auberon is nowhere to be found in the fortress. He’s either our traitor or in grave danger. Either way, I want him back.”

Aife nodded. “I’ll find out what Burgess knows by the time you return.”

“Be on your guard,” Donovan said. “We don’t know how deep the spy’s influence goes. They may target you while I’m gone.”

“Or they may target you while you’re away from your Kingsguard. I’ll be fine.” Aife rested a hand on Donovan’s forearm. Her expression was soft, but somber. “Stay safe, Donnie.”

Donovan pressed a kiss to his sister’s forehead. He remembered the days, not too many years ago, when doing so would cause her to feign sickness and scrub at her skin where his lips touched. She was almost grown up, but looking at her, Donovan still thought of her as one of two cooing babies that Donovan held so carefully, one in each arm. He used to be amazed at how little their fingers were, how big and bright their eyes were. When they started to speak, they couldn’t pronounce his name, but they would still call for him; “Donnie! Donnie!” Even now, with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, they were more important. “I’ll see you soon,” he said.

  


The Kingsguard were not thrilled when Donovan left the fortress without them, but his orders would not be challenged. And if Donovan was careful to slip away without notifying Rhiannon, that was nobody’s business of his own. Besides, he wasn’t alone. He was accompanied by two gray wolfhounds, Marnie and Darcy; almost as large as he was and trained for the hunt. They were a fearsome sight, or they would be if not for the constant wagging of their tails as their master took them on an adventure. His third companion was a bay warhorse; Devona had been a gift to him when he was a prince, and he’d helped raise her since she could barely walk on spindly legs. Now she would not answer to anyone else. Even the stable hands could barely touch her, and Donovan saw to it personally that she was treated like a goddess.

Truly an entourage fit for a king, but Donovan had no intention of proclaiming his status to the world. The fortress watched over the border, and within its walls was the town of Bridgewood. Although it was currently controlled by Sheridan soldiers, the common folk had no love for the king. Donovan was dressed as a woodsman, hooded and cloaked, wearing worn hide armor and carrying a hunter’s bow. The only mark of a king he carried was his royal seal, tucked away in a hidden pocket, along with more coins than a woodsman would ever make in his life. In this part of town, money just might speak louder than status.

His first destination was an ancient tavern with cobwebs in the rafters and creaking floorboards. If he knew anything, it was that gossip flowed at roughly the same rate that alcohol did. He left Devona outside, knowing that only a fool with more courage than sense would try to steal her. The hounds followed at his heels, and sat by his feet as he ordered a stiff brown ale from the mountains, for politeness’ sake. 

“Where’re you from, stranger?” the barkeep said. She was tall, scrawny, with straw-blonde hair and freckles all over her face and exposed cleavage. Her smile was friendly, but polished, designed to make a handsome stranger think she was giving him special treatment, where in reality she was kind to everyone who passed through her doors without causing trouble. Or maybe Donovan needed to stop thinking like a politician. He lied, naming a town northwest of Bridgewood, near the border. 

“Tried to leave when the soldiers came through,” he said. The accent from the border towns was easy enough to imitate. “Seems they caught up to me anyway. Oh well. That’s not the trouble I’m looking for.”

“What kind of trouble are you looking for? Now mind your manners when you answer, or I’ll have Gran chase you out with a broom.” Her smile never faltered. She was teasing, mostly. Donovan would remain polite.

“An elf,” he said. “Clever, infuriatingly pretty. Never seen one up close until two nights ago, but I’ve lost his trail since then. He’s either in trouble or he’s the source of it, and I mean to find out.”

“Oh!” the barkeep’s smile faded into genuine surprise, and she leaned in close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Your boy’s in trouble, I can tell you that. Madam Ainsley came in here late last night, crowing about some fancy new merchandise.”

The next swallow of ale came with a cocktail of emotions; worry, hope, relief. Donovan let his face remain even. “I haven’t heard that name before.”

“Right, right.” The barkeep’s expression twisted into something akin to distaste. “Ainsley runs the slave market on the edge of town. I’ve never liked her much. It was bad enough when she was just shipping people in from Sherid, but since the war started she’s been picking off our own. She’s a vulture, that one, always circling, waiting for you to run out of money. I’ve lost some regulars to that damned market. Nice people, didn’t have much, but tipped well when they could. Be careful dealing with her, stranger. You seem alright.”

Dread and fury solidified like ice in Donovan’s stomach. It hadn’t taken him long to decide that Auberon was his, but already the idea that a vulture might trade him in for a swift profit was too much too bear. Perhaps it was time to teach the people of Bridgewood who their new king was. Donovan took a deep breath. No, acting rashly would be a mistake. He would find Auberon, bring him back to the fortress as quickly and quietly as possible. Root out the spies, then punish whoever dared to steal from him. 

“I can’t thank you enough, but perhaps this will do,” he said, sliding a few gold coins across the bar. The barkeep’s eyes widened as she guessed their value, but she quickly collected herself and pocketed the tip discreetly. 

“Think nothing of it, stranger,” she said. “You’d better hurry. Madam Vulture seemed to think your boy would sell fast.”

Donovan took his leave, but not before the barkeep tossed a few pieces of chicken to the hounds. Outside, Devona was pawing at the ground, as if she too had sensed the urgency of the situation. The vulture did her business on the outskirts of town, in the shadow of the wall, and the more Donovan saw, the more he feared what he would find at the end of Auberon’s trail. 

A high wood fence circled the perimeter, the spaces between the logs too narrow to see through. Once someone went in, it would be hell trying to get out. Donovan passed through the gate, letting the guards wonder if he was a customer or fresh prey. Inside were several huts arranged in a half circle, and the stone and grass gave way to dry dirt. But what first caught Donovan’s eye was an open tent, offering the barest protection from the elements, and in its shade a line of people. Slaves, their ankles chained to stakes in the ground. They stood quietly, their eyes fixed on the dust beneath their feet. They wore little or nothing at all, and most of them had visible scars. A slight woman with her hair pinned back walked down the line, and Donovan soon realized that she was no slave. She fussed with one’s clothes, checked the bandages on another’s wound, and when one slave opened her mouth to speak she received a vicious strike with the riding crop in the slaver’s hand.

Madam Vulture herself. Donovan concealed his distaste and strode toward the tent. When he drew near, Ainsley turned, a salesman’s smile giving way to an ill-concealed sneer. “Are you lost, good sir?” she said. “Please, keep your distance from my merchandise. They’re quite expensive, and not to be touched unless you have the coin for it.”

“I’m looking to make a purchase,” Donovan said.

“I see,” said Ainsley. “A homesteader looking for labor, if I might hazard a guess? I have a few that might suit your needs, although they won’t be nearly as docile as the selection you see here.”

Donovan shifted his eyes down the line, examining each slave in turn. His gaze lingered on the tall, the beautiful, anyone with pale gold hair. But Auberon was nowhere to be seen. “Not quite,” he said. “My employer is looking for a companion. He is picky, but willing to spend good money on one that suits him.”

“Your employer?” Ainsley’s expression was shrewd, hopeful but not yet convinced. “Who might that be? I’m proud to have done business with every noble house on the border.”

“If he did not value his privacy, he wouldn’t have sent me.” Ainsley had reason to be suspicious, of course, but Donovan had one more argument to make. He reached into his jacket and retrieved a single gold piece from his purse, making sure that the vulture could hear the others rattle. “But my lord generously rewards those who help him.”

Ainsley’s disdain melted away, hidden behind a polished smile. “I see! Say no more, I’m happy to be of assistance.” She reached out, placing his hand under the chin of one slave. Donovan recognized her as the one who had spoken out before. She remained quiet now, but her lips twisted into a vicious snarl. “Feel free to examine any of the merchandise you see here, or if you tell me what your lord is looking for, I can bring out something more suitable.”

Donovan almost choked on the hope that swelled in his chest. Auberon could be here, he could be brought home safe before midday, and then he and Donovan would have a word about the slave’s wandering. “My lord is looking for something unique,” he said. “He’s dreamed of the beauty of the elves, but has long thought that dream unattainable. Recently, however, we’ve heard rumors that an elf fell into your hands.”

Ainsley’s smile twitched, a moment of recognition. But she said, “Terribly sorry, friend, but your lord’s dream is quite impossible. To see an elf is rare enough, but to capture one? Unthinkable.”

Donovan pressed a coin into the vulture’s hand and brought out another. “Why don’t you give it a second thought?” he said.

A moment passed as Ainsley pretended to think carefully. “Perhaps an elf did pass through here. A truly stunning specimen. I might go the rest of my life and never see a slave so rare and beautiful. But of course such a slave would never remain on the market for long.”

“And to whom was he sold?” Donovan found his patience wearing thin, but he was careful not to show it. Ainsley arched an eyebrow, holding out his hand for further motivation to remember. Donovan briefly considered beating the information out of her, but the number of heavily muscled thugs watching the perimeter made such a course inadvisable. He passed Ainsley another coin. 

“I sold him to a caravan heading toward the capital. He’ll be one of Wellmont’s most prized treasures, but not before he spends the long journey entertaining the caravan guards. Perhaps if you leave now, you can catch up to them.” A joke, delivered with a cruel gleam in the vulture’s eye. “Give your lord my regards.”

Donovan didn’t bother saying farewell. Devona’s swift hooves brought him within minutes to the gates of Bridgewood. The gatekeepers nearly let him by just from the determination and urgency on his face, and the king’s seal informed them that this matter was urgent indeed. Urging Devona on, Donovan raced down the east road toward Wellmont. 

The east road was little more than a wide ditch carved into the ground by centuries of passage between Sherid and Albionne. The tracks in the dirt were hopelessly muddled by the many travelers who had left since dawn, but Donovan had not lost hope yet. He retrieved a bundle of fir green fabric from his satchel. Auberon’s dress, snatched up before it could be laundered. Donovan only hoped that the elf’s perfume did not overpower his natural scent, but that was up to the hounds. He reached down, offering the bundle to Marnie and Darcy. They sniffed, their bodies going still as they focused. Then they put their noses to the ground. Darcy was the first to pick up the scent. With an energetic bark, he bounded off down the road, his sister following close behind. Donovan brought Devona into a run, and the hunt was on.

The hounds followed the road for a long while, while the tree canopy grew thick overhead, turning the bright spring afternoon to dusk. The road curved along a stream, and at one point the ridge leading up to the forest floor shifted to a gentle slope. At that point, the hounds paused, moved in a few tight circles, then barked and were off between the trees. Donovan followed, ducking low under the branches, and Devona weaved through the brush. Then, not far off the road, Donovan called for a halt.

The hounds were ready to continue down the trail, but Donovan was stopped in his tracks. Slumped on the forest floor was a corpse. A man, dressed in a chain shirt and his pants around his knees. Donovan swung down off Devona to examine the scene. 

First, the body. It was cold and stiff, but no more than a day old. Cause of death, strangulation, although not by human hands. The skin around his neck was bloodied and bruised in such a way that Donovan didn’t know what caused it. Upon closer inspection, his cock had been brutally bitten, and Donovan took that to mean that his incredible murder was provoked. Donovan studied the ground, and the story was revealed to him. A person, kneeling with their back to a tree. A leather muzzle, removed and left on the ground. The dead man, punished for his advances. Tracks led away from the scene; barefooted, pained, limping. The hounds sat patiently by the trail, waiting for the command to continue. 

“Go on,” Donovan said, mounting Devona once more. “Find him.”

Again they set off, and Donovan’s curiosity was steadily replaced by the joy of a hunt’s end, even as he feared what he would find. What had Auberon gone through? How much of him was left?

The baying of the hounds let Donovan know that he would soon find out, and he coaxed Devona into a gallop. As he drew near, a string of curses joined the hounds’ joyful song. He knew that voice, although he preferred to hear it purring his name. When he broke through the brush, a marvelous sight awaited him. Marnie sat on her haunches, barking dutifully until Donovan was in sight. Then she bounded up to him, wagging her tail in the hopes of being rewarded. Darcy did not leave Auberon’s side, nor stop gleefully licking his face, despite the elf’s shouts of “Get off me, damned beast!”

“Get down, Darcy,” Donovan said, his voice dripping with fondness. Darcy quickly obeyed, but at the sound of him, Auberon went rigid. When the elf turned toward Donovan, his eyes weren’t just bright; they gleamed like twin suns. Auberon extended his hand, and the sudden chill and dread in the air was so potent that fearless Devona reared up and shrieked. Donovan kept his seat, but not for long. Auberon spoke an enchantment, and he spoke with a chorus of voices, only one of which Donovan knew. The shadows of the trees reached out toward him, and although they looked no more substantial than wisps of fog, their strength as they wrapped around Donovan’s body was undeniably physical. A tendril circled around Donovan’s throat, and as he lost the ability to breathe, he realized just what had killed the man lying beneath the trees.

It felt like an eternity, but it was only a moment before recognition dawned on Auberon’s face. He stumbled over his words and fell silent, and the shadows dissipated, dropping Donovan to the ground. He landed heavily in the dirt, winded but uninjured. The hounds hurried to his side, at once checking to see if he was okay and hiding behind him from the terrifying sorcerer. Donovan caught his breath, dragged himself to his feet, grabbed Devona’s reins and murmured to her until she was calm once more. Only then did he turn to Auberon, and without the veil of magic surrounding him, what Donovan saw broke his heart.

Auberon was on his knees, and he made no attempt to get to his feet. Pain was etched into his face, every muscle in his body. He was in agony, and fleeing through the woods hadn’t helped that. His feet were muddy, his legs were scratched by thorns, and his hair was in tangles. His eyes were reddened and swollen, and his lips were dry. He looked every bit like a pup separated from the pack, wandering hungry and lost through the wilderness, driven to madness by thirst and fear. 

Donovan approached slowly, fearing he might bolt into the trees at any moment. But of course that was impossible. He could barely move. Bandages were wrapped inexpertly around his torso, and whatever wound they covered tormented Auberon with each breath. He watched Donovan warily as the king knelt, reached for his water skin. 

“Here,” Donovan said, holding the mouth of the skin to Auberon’s lips. His other hand slid around the back of his head, fingers twining through golden hair. Auberon drank deeply, lifting his hand to grasp the king’s wrist. When he was done, his head drooped, and a pained wince crossed his face as the simple motion aggravated his wounds. 

“Why did you come for me?” Auberon said. What went unspoken; ‘I never expected to see you again.’

“Where are you injured?” Donovan said instead of, ‘You are precious to me.’

Auberon gestured to his back, and Donovan coaxed him to lay face doe on a patch of soft moss. The elf’s body shook, but he didn’t hesitate to show Donovan his back. Those bright eyes were fixed on the king, and for once they were a crystal clear window to his soul. There Donovan saw agony but no fear. 

The hounds wandered over, sniffing at Auberon with curiosity and concern in their big brown eyes. Donovan shooed them away, and they obediently tripped over to wait by Devona. Donovan drew a knife from his belt and slid the blade delicately between the bandages and Auberon’s skin. The bandages fell away, revealing a lattice of open wounds, red and swollen such that Donovan made a hurt sound at the mere sight. What fool would punish such a valuable slave with the whip? What fool would dare to punish his slave with the whip? Donovan swallowed his anger, but he was sure that Auberon could see it in the grim set of his jaw. Still, he stayed calm for Auberon’s sake. 

“I should have come sooner,” he said.

“I’m amazed that you found me at all,” said Auberon. “I thought I would have to learn to serve a cruel master.”

“I will not allow that,” Donovan said. “This will sting, pet.”

Auberon’s body jerked as a damp cloth made contact with his torn skin. The sound that escaped him was wholly undignified and clawed at Donovan’s heart. Still, he methodically cleaned the elf’s wound, his touch as light as he dared. As he worked, his fury burned steady, growing hotter with each drop of blood wiped away. His gaze drifted lower, searching for further damage, and his heart sank when he found just that. Bruises shaped like fingerprints, partially hidden by Auberon’s dark skin, where someone had roughly gripped his thighs. Donovan was forced to pause his ministrations, taking deep breaths to calm his burst of blinding rage.

“Am I damaged?” Auberon said. 

“No,” said Donovan, smoothing his hand over Auberon’s hip, his touch impossibly gentle. “You’re hurt.”

Donovan hadn’t thought to bring fresh clothes. In his mind, Auberon was free and confident, charming his way out of trouble. Meeting Auberon’s gaze, Donovan barely recognized the wounded slave beneath him. He carefully wrapped fresh bandages around Auberon’s upper body, then helped him into the dress. It still smelled of perfume. Draped in silk, barely able to stand, Auberon looked like a wilting flower. Donovan draped his cloak around the slave’s shoulders. Hopefully it would warm him, comfort him. Selfishly, Donovan was glad that it would shield Auberon from The town’s prying eyes. 

Getting him onto Devona was another ordeal. “I’m not made of glass,” Auberon said, grumbling at Donovan’s hesitation. “Lift me up.”

Donovan did so, and immediately regretted it. His hands on Auberon’s waist presses against a whip-wound, and as the elf gripped the saddle to haul himself up his back and shoulders strained. Auberon’s cry of pain stopped Donovan’s heart, and his hands hovered, yearning to touch but hating to cause any more discomfort. Auberon sat hunched in the saddle, his body shaking, his face twisted into the beginnings of a sob. Donovan lay a hand on his thigh, rubbing in sorting circles while Auberon calmed himself. He drew in a shuddering breath and said, “Please bring me back to the fortress. I can’t bear to wait any longer.”

Donovan hopped up onto the saddle, his back to Auberon’s chest. The slave’s arms slipped around his waist like that was where they belonged. Donovan turned his head so that he could kiss the corner of Auberon’s mouth, and when he faced forward he could feel the taller man bend his head to rest against Donovan’s shoulders. 

The journey was made long by Devona’s gentle pace, although Auberon’s every labored breath made Donovan ache to be in the infirmary, giving his slave the medicine and tender care he needed. The sky was painted pink and orange by the time they rode through the Bridgewood gates, and the fortress loomed overhead. 

Donovan saw to it that few knew of his departure or his arrival. He delivered Auberon to the infirmary as discreetly as possible, and there Auberon described what he had seen. A traitor in their midst. If any part of Donovan had been inclined to distrust him, the sorry state he was in banished any doubt. Auberon had not intended to suffer as he had; this was no grand deception. 

He was going to scar, in more ways than one. Donovan stroked his hair as the healers tended to him, pretending he didn’t see the tears spilling down Auberon’s ashen cheeks. “I have to go, pet, but I’ll see you tonight. I need to punish the one who put you through this.”

Auberon’s lips twitched into a grim shadow of a smile. “I wish I could watch,” he said.

  


By the time Donovan left the infirmary, Rhiannon and the Kingsguard had found him. “Where the hell have you been?” she hissed, and it was only the reluctance to chastise the king in public that kept her from raising her voice. 

Donovan was similarly quiet, but for a different reason. “Gathering evidence against our saboteur,” he said. “Where is Aife?”

“She took Burgess off duty,” Rhiannon said. “He’s been confined to his quarters, and she’s watching the door like a hawk. Sire, are you positive it’s him?”

Donovan didn’t answer, confident that the truth would reveal itself in short order. He made his way to the captain’s quarters, flanked by his guard. He tried not to feel as if any one of them might suddenly point a dagger at his back. If Burgess confessed to having accomplices, Donovan would deal with them as well. If he didn’t, the former captain’s fate was likely to deter any future acts of treason. 

Aife leaned against the door, her arms crossed. Likely she had been there since Donovan’s departure that morning. He felt a surge of warmth and pride, but was careful to remain professional. This was a serious matter, and one that would likely end in bloodshed. “You took your sweet time,” Aife said. “He hasn’t confessed, but he’s a terrible liar. Put him out of his misery, won’t you?”

“Gladly,” Donovan said. To Rhiannon, he ordered, “Go question the head herbalist. I doubt she knows more than I do, but I don’t want any loose ends. Aife, you’ve done well. Get some rest.”

Aife bowed so deeply it was clearly sarcastic. She stood aside from the door, but did not leave immediately, reluctant to miss out on the ensuing drama. Donovan squared his shoulders, schooled his expression into a stern glower, and opened the door. Burgess leaped to his feet, stunned by the sight of the king, fists clenched and fury burning in his eyes. 

“Your Majesty,” Burgess said, dropping to one knee.

“On your feet,” Donovan snapped. “Don’t insult me with false respect. I know where your loyalties lie.”

Burgess stood, apprehension plain on his face. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sire,” he said. Aife was right; he was a miserable liar. 

“What else have you done in King Raleigh’s name?” Donovan said. “You attempted have me killed. Did you also aid those who killed my father and mother?”

“No!” The denial burst out of Burgess, and it sounded like a plea for mercy. “Your Majesty, I could never!”

Donovan drew his sword, and Burgess went very still. Donovan himself was slow to anger and slower still to take vengeance, but the dead king’s temper was legendary. Burgess has surely heard the whispers of defectors and dissidents who had died screaming, and Donovan needed only to let his unwavering resolve show on his face and ride on the coattails of his father’s reputation. The king’s voice was quiet, and yet it was the only sound in the sparse room. “You are going to die. Obey me and your death will be swift. I ordered you not to insult me with your lies.”

“There was no attempt on your life!” Burgess exclaimed. His face was pale, and his voice shook. “King Raleigh insisted you were to be brought to him unharmed. I’m no assassin, Your Majesty. Please, have mercy!”

Donovan pretended to consider the traitor’s pleas, and finally spoke. “Traitors within my ranks, a Kingsguard slain, my prized slave stolen. I am not inclined toward mercy. If there are other traitors, however, I may exact my vengeance on them instead.”

As if a dam broke, Burgess crumpled. He hung his head, and his voice quieted to little more than a whisper. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

This conversation would be better served in the dungeons, with the wardens taking care to ensure that he spoke the truth. Donovan gripped his arm, dragging him out of the room. Aife took a step back from where she’d had her ear all but pressed to the door. “Coward,” she said, a wide grin stretching across her face. “I thought he’d take longer to confess. I suppose I did soften him up for you.”

“It’s not over yet,” Donovan said. “But he’s agreed to share the names of his fellows. Any traitor in this fortress will be dead within the week.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Donovan noticed the his Kingsguards exchange a glance. It took a moment for him to remember their names. The old Kingsguard had been slain along with his father, as did many of those who protected Donovan as a prince. These were a pair of new recruits, and yet they had been given the trust of the crown. Donovan realized as they drew their swords that his trust had been misplaced.

Burgess seized Donovan’s wrist in his hand, trying to wrestle the sword out of his grip. Aife drew her weapon and prepared to intervene, but Donovan stopped her with a shout, directing her attention to the man and woman advancing on her with drawn weapons. She spun around, falling into a defensive stance, and Donovan turned his attention to the writhing man in his grasp. Too close to make use of his weapon, Donovan was forced to rely on the strength of his body. Burgess was larger, heavier, but Donovan was able to match him. Furthermore, Burgess had relied on the element of surprise without accounting for the king’s quick reflexes. Donovan slammed his knee against the traitor’s groin and yanked out of his grasp as he doubled over. Donovan raised his sword and brought the hilt down on Burgess’s bowed head, and he slumped to the ground. 

The harsh sound of clashing swords rang throughout the hallway, sending the clever servants running and drawing others to watch in horror as the princess ran her sword through a chink in the Kingsguard’s armor. He buckled, and Aife did not retrieve her sword quickly enough to defend against a blow from the other direction. Donovan did not waste a precious moment rushing into the fray, but drew his sword arm back and hurled his blade with deadly precision. It lodged in the second Kingsguard’s side, and she too fell, her sword clattering to the ground.

Aife dragged her sword out of the traitor’s bleeding body. “Donnie, what’s going on?” she said, but of course she knew the answer, and Donovan knew little more than he did. The bodies of the slain Kingsguards were ill omens of the worst kind. Every shadow cast by the flickering torchlight seemed to hide cloaked enemies. One way or another, Donovan intended to smoke them out. He reached down, hauling a dazed Burgess up by the collar of his tunic. 

“Stay on your guard, Aife,” Donovan said. “I’m going to get some answers.”

  


The salve soaking Auberon’s wounds still burned when the healers left him, commanding him to rest and recover. His exhaustion may have won out over the pain, dragging him to sleep despite the fiery discomfort, but he kept his eyes open by force of will. His head was turned to the side, his eyes studying a shadow that flickered in time with the evening candlelight. His lips formed around whispered words, although there appeared to be no one nearby to hear him. A voice whispered back, sliding through his ears and into his thoughts. The spell he meant to cast was costly, even more so than his craft tended to be. He argued, however, that he had sacrificed quite enough. Surely the spirit lurking in the shadows could accommodate his revenge. 

Auberon felt a weight on his mind as the creature considered his thoughts, dominated by the stripes in his back making his body scream for relief. He felt a chill like cold fingers running down his spine, and a shiver followed them. The moment stretched on as the pressure within his skull became nearly too much to bear, until finally the spirit agreed.

Auberon stretched out a shaking arm. It took all his strength to steady his hand, and when he had done so he traced an intricate symbol in the air. When he spoke a command in an arcane language, the spirit did not argue. He drew his fingers to his lips and breathed out a puff of smoke. It swirled around a shape in the shadow; a figure with gleaming gold eyes that appeared and disappeared all the way down the length of its serpentine body. It spoke in a hissing language, painful to listen to and difficult to understand, but Auberon, well practiced, recognized its macabre excitement. The smoke-shrouded snake twisted and slithered toward the door, and by the time it left the room it had faded from view altogether.

Through the fortress it crept, feeding off of Auberon’s anger and eager for vengeance. The spell led it into the dungeons, past empty cells yearning to be filled, between the feet of the king, toward Burgess. He would feel a chill wrapping around his ankle, creeping up his body, encircling his throat. Donovan, Aife, and the dungeon wardens watched in shock and horror as Burgess began to scream, writhing and rattling his chains. They could only stand frozen as the minutes dragged on, as his writhing turned into helpless convulsions, his screams became became choked gasps. When he finally stopped moving, Donovan knelt before him, reaching out to touch his throat. Burgess was dead, his skin unnaturally cold.

Alone at last and thoroughly spent, Auberon’s thoughts drifted toward sleep, the traitor’s screams still echoing throughout his skull.


End file.
